Now, Then, Later
by DeniseV
Summary: Rodney has a recipe.  A story in praise of New Jersey summers, inspite of the miserable heat and humidity.  Slash.


**NOW**

"Now this recipe explains a lot, Rodney," Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard said as he lounged on the narrow bed.

"Oh, shut up. I don't eat it every day. It's not often we're going to see Jersey tomatoes on Atlantis, in season," Dr. Rodney McKay responded, his eyes still glazed over at the thought of the scrumptious meal he would be preparing this evening. He'd reserved the kitchen early on, as soon as he'd heard from his former colleague that the ripe red ambrosia of a vegetable – or was it a fruit? – was on its way to the SGC. He'd had his old Princeton colleague – they'd spent a summer together a long time ago in the hallowed halls of the Ivy League institution – arrange for the tomatoes to be specially packed in order to preserve as much as possible their firm yet juicy freshness. Rodney couldn't understand why activating the Stargate for this purpose was turned down by Elizabeth Weir. She'd obviously never experienced a Jersey tomato in her poor, wretched life. Her dismissal of the request justified her banishment from the party.

His summer in New Jersey had been made memorable by the bounty of fresh grown and picked vegetables in the 'Garden State'. Corn and squash, eggplant and zucchini. The tomatoes. Oh, the tomatoes! People on Atlantis thought that Rodney McKay was the anti-vegetable guy, a Canadian who didn't understand anything that wasn't meat or a meat by-product, none of the fat trimmed, thank you very much. What did they think he was, an Eskimo? No, it wasn't his hatred of vegetables or any great need for fatty proteins that kept him from enjoying the 'vegetables' served on Atlantis. It was that one long summer long ago what spoiled Rodney McKay for mushy, overcooked vegetables. Alleged vegetables.

In fact, Rodney had been so taken with the bounty of fresh produce – the melons were to DIE for – that he'd written an article for The Daily Princetonian about the glories of eggplant and zucchini and squash on the grill, or the tomatoes used to make a delicious Caprese salad, with the fresh basil readily available from Jason's tiny herb garden outside his small bedroom's large window. The tomato was, in fact, a staple of Rodney's diet that entire summer. He'd not been as fit since. He'd been slim, his stomach flat, the only roundness to be found was on his, from what he'd been told more than once that summer, firm, nicely rounded…well, it was a long time ago.

Rodney sighed.

"What?" John asked.

"Nothing."

"You know, you've got oil…"

"Canola…"

"Why don't you use olive oil? It's better for you," John suggested.

"Won't cook right."

"Flour, eggs, more oil and milk – whole milk – for the gravy."

"Have you ever had them before?" Rodney asked, a hint of irritation in his tone.

"Well, no I haven't. I'm not sure I want to."

"You know, I went to a lot of trouble to get these tomatoes. And it's a lot of trouble to prepare and cook them this way. If you're going to have that attitude, then I'll just cook a few for myself and forget about it. I'll use the rest for…tomato sandwiches."

"No, no. I'm…I'll try 'em. Besides, Ronon's really looking forward to them. Says they sound a lot like a meal his mother cooked when he was a kid."

"Hm. Well, good. I think you'll like them. I know the recipe sounds a little…scary for someone who jogs every day. But you won't be eating these every day, even though you'll want to after you've tried them once. And we're not using corn oil the way Jason did back then. They're like ambrosia, John." Sheppard stood up and walked over to the scientist, who was busily putting together his project plan for the cooking of the tomatoes. He leaned down and put his arms around Rodney's neck, sliding his hands down his lover's chest and then slipping them inside McKay's pants.

"Ah, don't. I've got to put this together."

"You don't have a little bit of time?" John asked, talking into Rodney's ear softly and then lathing his tongue in the ear, over the earlobe and then taking a suck down the soft neck.

"Mmmm, that feels…no!" Rodney flipped his head to the right, knocking John on the side of his head.

"Ouch!" the colonel said, rubbing his head above his ear. "It's just a meal. You'd think you'd never cooked before."

"Look!" Rodney yelled as he turned to look at the pest who was ruining his planning. He'd originally started out putting his plan together in Microsoft Project, but realized that he was probably going overboard. He switched to Excel, despite its inadequacies from an hourly calendar perspective. He needed to concentrate to make sure he didn't miss anything. Why didn't John understand that? As he looked up he saw John's sad, puppy-dog face, and he was still rubbing his ear. His lover couldn't have planned it better.

"Take your clothes off, get on the bed. Prepare to be boarded."

"Ooh, goody," John gasped as he shed his black t-shirt faster than Rodney'd ever seen him do it before. And had his lover just undone his buckle and fly one-handed?

"I only have fifteen minutes," Rodney instructed as he, too, shed his clothes expeditiously.

"We can do all kinds of stuff in fifteen minutes," John answered. Seriously, Rodney thought, if John had a tail…just like a puppy. Hmm. On second thought, John Sheppard had one of the nicest tails Rodney'd ever seen, or at least as far back as the summer of tomatoes, way back then.

**THEN**

Two hours and fifteen minutes later, John, Rodney, Teyla and Ronon were sitting down to a truly scrumptious meal of fried tomatoes and gravy. There was no sound in the room save for the noises of four people savoring the delectable greatness of New Jersey tomatoes, dipped in egg and then flour, fried in canola oil. It was INSANE how good the sloppy-looking mess was.

Rodney had sliced the tomatoes – 'No, you can't help…they have to be sliced to just the right thickness' – and prepared two bowls, one with egg, beaten, the other with flour, bleached and the most unhealthy flour one could find. Then the hard work began as Rodney stood over the stove, babysitting the tomatoes as they fried up nice and brown, some darker than brown – the way McKay liked them. He placed the cooked ones on cookie sheets and blotted the excess oil from them before placing the trays in the oven to stay warm. He complained the entire time he cooked: the pans were too deep, he liked to work from right to left, but the kitchen wasn't set up like that, don't we have air conditioning in this place? Teyla came over periodically to dry the sweat from McKay's forehead, and John wished that he could have been the one doing that.

After all of the full slices were cooked, Rodney cooked up the saved ends the same way, egg first, then flour, and then took all of the scrapings from the bottom of both of the pans he'd been cooking with, transferring them all to one pan, and then he added a little more oil, and some milk, keeping both the milk and flour handy as he worked the gravy with all the tomato ends swirling about. For that part he made his team leave the kitchen. He never explained why, but John suspected that it was a pretty ugly scene in there now. Also, he'd read over Rodney's shoulder the email that he'd received from this Jason guy…John wasn't sure he liked this Jason guy…who said that making the gravy was always the hardest part. The recipe, at this point, had called for generous salt and pepper, but not to worry, people can season as they like, in the end, as this Jason guy explained.

Finally someone spoke. "How can something so…I don't know…ugly, taste so good." It was John. Rodney looked up, his expression perplexed. John looked at Rodney. Seeing Rodney's confusion, he frowned. Both men wore similar expressions. Teyla and Ronon watched the exchange. Teyla rolled her eyes. Ronon did not.

"He's not talking about you, McKay," he said.

Rodney and John both looked at Ronon. Their expressions changed from confused, perplexed, frowning to a decided deer in the headlights kind of thing. They both swallowed, hard, what they had in their mouths.

"Of course I'm not talking about him," John said defensively, almost apologetically.

"Why would he be talking about me?" Rodney asked as he set his fork down, his face now projecting abject fear.

Teyla turned to Ronon – and punched him hard in the arm.

"Ow!"

"What Ronon means is that we know. And we don't care," Teyla said, trying to be helpful.

"You know and don't care about what?" McKay asked.

"We know that you are together, and we don't care," Ronon explained.

"I am sorry. That was the wrong thing to say. I meant, we know and we are happy for you," Teyla clarified.

Ronon shoveled more of the gravy-laden fried tomatoes into his mouth and said, "It's 'bout time, too."

John and Rodney looked at each other. John decided to speak.

"I don't know what you're talking about." McKay looked at Sheppard as though he'd just shot his cat.

"John, we are aware of this 'don't ask, don't tell' nonsense," Teyla offered.

"Stupid," Ronon said as he continued to enjoy the tomatoes. Rodney had truly slaved over them, knowing that he had people in this dinner party who could all put away the food. He had made a large amount of tomatoes and it seemed Ronon was not inclined to let any go to waste.

"Yes, it is," the Athosian said, less diplomatic than usual. "You do not have to worry about us. We will be discreet. We have been for some time."

"Um…well," John said, not really knowing what to say. He knew that he had a little explaining to do with his lover, who, from the look in his eyes, hadn't taken too kindly to being denied in front of their friends. "Rodney, you were right about the tomatoes. They are like ambrosia."

"They are wonderful, Teyla agreed."

Ronon continued to eat, having already said his say.

McKay stood and left the table.

John looked down at his plate, his half eaten food looking like it was congealing by the second. Though the food was incredibly tasty, it no longer held any interest for him.

"Excuse me," he said as he set his napkin down and left the room.

Teyla and Ronon watched Sheppard leave. Ronon said, "There's a lot of food left."

"We will wrap some for them to heat up later."

"We will?"

**LATER**

"I'm sorry."

"No. Don't be. I…overreacted."

"No you didn't. I…I don't know why…"

"Yes you do. It's understandable. You're risking a lot being with me. You have to consider if it's worth it. I forget, it's not a risk for me, but you must think about that, weigh it all the time."

John sat down next to Rodney on the bed. "I don't."

Rodney huffed and said, "Don't. Don't lie, or try to spare my feelings."

"I wouldn't lie, you know that, and I'm not sparing your feelings. I know that we're right - together. I never think about whether you're worth the risk. I did, at first. For like the first day. But that's it. We decided to keep it quiet, but I don't care. I really don't. And if it gets back to the Air Force, then I'll deal with that when it does. Look, I really, really don't think that it's risking anything if our relationship gets out. For me. I'm more worried for you."

"Me? Why?"

"Because, in case you didn't know, there are people who are afraid of people like you and me."

"What? Scientists and fly-boys?"

"Homosexuals, Rodney."

"Oh. Hmph. Is it weird that I don't think of us that way?" he asked, cocking his head and squinting his eyes.

John snorted. "A little. It's just a label, but it's a label that's left a lot of wreckage in its wake. You've heard of Matthew Shepard?"

"Oh, do we have to go there?"

"His name is spelled differently, there's no relation. And yes we have to go there. I want you to understand that I think it's safer for both of us to keep this between us. Well, and now Ronon and Teyla. They won't say anything. And I'll talk to them about the fact that it's not just about 'don't ask, don't tell'." Rodney turned away, but John pulled his face back. They were face-to-face, and very close. Rodney dropped his head to his chin.

"What's wrong?"

"This is so not how I wanted tonight to go."

"I'm sure," John noted.

"So, did you like them? I know you think you've just hardened your arteries by another fifteen percent and increased your bad cholesterol about thirty points."

"Ah, like you said, we don't eat them every day. But they were delicious. Did you see Ronon?" They both laughed. The man didn't need sex when he ate food with such obvious, delirious passion. "They were like ambrosia. But they've got nothin' on how good you taste."

"Is that right?" Rodney asked, a crooked grin coming to his lips as John used his tongue in mind-bendingly sensuous ways, around McKay's ears to his neck and then down his throat.

"Oh, you bet, baby."

"Which part is your ambrosia?"

"Every last drop," John replied, wiggling his eyebrows as he went down on his knees, getting into position to take his next delectable taste.

The End.


End file.
